The Butterfly State Page 3

  For the first few weeks after her father’s departure, the rebellious Maura left Éamonn to do all the work himself, riding into town on her bicycle with Brigid, making the most of her new-found freedom. As the weeks passed, however, bored with wandering the one-horse town, she spent more time on the farm helping Éamonn, who despite being raised in Dublin, took to farm life easily. Maura loved to listen to his broad Dublin accent and was attracted to the confident young man. With his red hair and freckled skin, he was not a handsome youth but Maura found herself fascinated by the intensity of the young man, who having just turned eighteen, had earned a scholarship to UCD where he planned to study law, the work this summer helping to pay for his studies. He was going to be the first in his family to go to university. He could talk for hours, and often did, about proper education and housing for the poor and he was passionate about Irish history. When Maura tired of his ranting, she would tease him about being a rebel whereupon he would chase her through the fields as he had done throughout the summers of their childhood.

  When Éamonn showed no physical interest in Maura, it was she who, free from her parents’ ever-watchful eyes, followed him into the outer field, touched his sunburnt face and kissed him lightly before walking back towards the house. He did not follow. Several days passed with an air of tension between the two, Maura tending to her work near the house and Éamonn avoiding the beautiful young girl whom he had thought about each night since his return to Árd Glen this summer. Three nights later, he left his grandparents’ cottage less than a mile away and walked in the midnight blue sky of the summer’s night towards Maura’s parents’ farm.

  Éamonn lowered his head as he walked in the door of the small stone cottage which was never locked and, as he opened the door of her bedroom, Maura seemed unperturbed and smiled as though she had been expecting him. He stood awkwardly in the tiny room, wondering how his legs had carried him there and wondering had he lost his mind. He knew old man Kelly well and if he found out about this he’d surely kill him.

  Éamonn looked at her and, even in the shadows of the room, she was beautiful. His heart pounded loudly. Maura, still smiling, pulled back the covers and he eased himself into her single bed. His body tensed as it touched hers but not because he had never been with a woman before, even though this was true, but because he had to be sure Maura knew, knew that he always planned to leave.

  “Maura, in autumn I have to go to Dublin, to college – it’s my dream.”

  “I know,” she said quietly, happy to have almost two more months with him and unconsciously shaking her black hair as if to shake off the doubts that rattled in her head.

  “Maura, your father doesn’t like me, you know.”

  “I know. Maybe that’s why I do!” she laughed.

  The knowledge that her father would definitely disapprove meant she would enjoy the next two months as if they were her last. In the weeks to come she often fantasised that Éamonn was her husband and that they were working this farm together and raising a family. At times she didn’t recognise herself for she had never thought of herself in that role, a farmer’s wife and mother, and had plans to move to Dublin or London after school, marrying when it suited her and by that she meant not marrying Mr Poor. She felt a little guilty about Jimmy, dying in Dublin while she was committing mortal sins, but those moments were fleeting. The doctors were doing everything they could for him. Maura was changing, the goals of a financially secure marriage no longer that important to her. She could marry Éamonn when his studies finished. She could wait. But some days the dread of him leaving caused her stomach to turn as she rushed for the outside toilet. Love, she thought as she busied herself with neglected household chores before her father’s return. Brigid came by less and less, sensing her intrusion on the love-birds. She did not tell her grandparents, though she knew she should, the thrill of being part of such a secret being the most exciting thing that happened to the freckle-faced tomboy all summer. The weeks to October flew by as time does when you are happy, Maura’s father eventually returning to run the farm, leaving his wife in Dublin to hold vigil over Jimmy.

  As Éamonn left for university, Maura promised to get to Dublin whenever she could, the excuse of visiting Jimmy perfectly acceptable to her parents. But she was still occasionally getting sick and, when this persisted, a trip to the doctor confirmed her suspicion. Maura was pregnant. Her thoughts twisted between running away to join Éamonn in Dublin or asking for her parents’ help until he finished his studies. She didn’t want to ruin his dream; getting married now would almost certainly put an end to college for him. She couldn’t give the baby up, go into one of those girls’ homes and never see the child. Her best option was to go to her parents and plead with them for help. “Blessed are the merciful,” her father was always saying.

  Maura waited until her father was saying his daily rosary to approach him. He was kneeling on a mat beside his bed, the old wooden beads swinging as he murmured continuous identical prayers to God. Maura waited until he began his prayers for the sick and dying in the village, offering up their suffering to the Lord, knowing this was the end of his daily ritual. She crept into his tiny room and stood behind him as he knelt on the stone floor. He was a small, thin man, who had married late in life and at fifty-eight looked much older than his years, his shock of thick white hair seeming at odds with his small physique. He knelt, his blue eyes tightly shut, as he offered up his own suffering to God.

  Maura cleared her throat, her heart pounding loudly beneath her thin dress.

  “Daddy,” she whispered quietly.

  “Not now, girl, can’t you see I’m saying my prayers? And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us –”

  “Sorry, Daddy, I just wanted to talk to you.”

  He looked at her, his face full of irritation. “What could be important enough to interrupt my prayers, child?”

  “I’m in trouble, Daddy.”

  His eyes seemed to bore right through her. “You mean . . .?”

  “I’m . . . I’m going to have a baby.”

  There. It was out. There was no taking it back now. No running away. She was facing up to any judgement he would pass on her. She closed her eyes and waited for his response. Then she heard a loud noise and, hardly feeling the slap in her shock, fell backwards to the floor. She had not seen him removing the leather belt she and her brother had received so many beatings with and lunging at her.

  “Who?” he shouted.

  Another slap, then another, the leather making red blistering marks on her skin. Her father was beating her harder than he had done for a very long time.

  “Who? By God, you’ll tell me if it’s the last thing you do!”

  Lashed on the back, the legs, her bare arms, Maura finally fell to the ground, her arms too tired to protect her body any longer. She did not plead or ask him to stop; she knew this would make him worse and it was best to stay quiet until it was over.

  Finally, he collapsed beside her and started sobbing.

  “What shame have you brought into this house, you filthy whore? Who was it? Who? By God, he’ll pay for the shame he’s brought on me!”

  Maura reeled more from her father’s language than from the beating she had endured. She had never heard him use profanity before. He rose from his knees, still sobbing. He tried to catch his breath and, upon standing, swung his belt one last time onto her crumpled body. He stepped over her, putting his belt back on. He walked out of the room and she saw him fixing his jacket and glancing quickly into the mirror that hung roughly on a rusty nail on the wall outside.

  He smoothed his hair, put his hat on and left the house; he was almost late for evening Mass.

  Maura, who continued to lie on the floor long after he was gone, curled up and whimpered quietly. She knew that her father had complete control over her now and that the only power she had was that she would never tell him who father of her child was.

  When Michael Byrne was invited for lunch the
following Sunday, Maura was told to stay in her room, her bruised face inappropriate for a visitor to see. She had not been allowed into town or anywhere else for that matter. The following Sunday, Michael called again and the silent Maura was encouraged to “walk out” with him after dinner. Michael never asked about her yellowed cheek and eye and spent time alone with her father in the parlour – “discussing business” he said when Maura asked.

  Michael was ten years older than Maura, tall and thin with hair as black as hers. Despite his large, work-roughened hands, he had a soft, almost feminine face and was known to be fonder of a pint than company. Maura’s father encouraged Michael to call often, despite Maura’s sullen demeanour. She knew or at least suspected what her father was planning. One evening after dinner he stated that she was to marry Michael and give the bastard child a name. There was no discussion, no pleading, nowhere for her to run. She had no way of getting word to Éamonn who would surely come and rescue her. She looked to her mother for protection but found none.

  Four weeks later Maura and Michael were married. There was no large reception such as one would have expected for an only daughter. Maura stood silently in her bedroom as her mother fastened the wedding dress and felt tears streaming down her face.

  “Mam, I’m sorry. I don’t want to –”

  “Don’t start. You’ve brought enough trouble on your father. Lucky to be getting married at all and no right whatsoever to be wearing my white dress.”

  Maura was wearing her mother’s wedding dress, purely because money would not be spent in giving her away.

  “We trusted you and look how you’ve repaid us while your brother is dying in Dublin. What right have you to say you don’t want to? It’s for the best. You’ll see that once you’ve settled down and the baby is born. Give it a father and a proper home. You don’t know how lucky you are. When it’s born your father and I will be the laughing stock of this village. If it wasn’t for the farm, we would have sent you away!”

  She ran from the room, slamming the door behind her, not in anger but because she could not let her only daughter see her tears. She stood for a moment in the hallway, wiping her eyes, and as she entered the kitchen her husband eyed her closely.

  “The girl is lucky to have us to support her so I want no nonsense out of you,” he said.

  Seven people attended the wedding, which was held on a weekday so that people would be in work, children back at school and few people would see Maura entering and leaving the church. Michael’s older brother stood as best man and Maura’s mother as matron of honour. Maura’s father almost ran down the aisle and squeezed her arm painfully as he handed her over to the waiting groom. Michael’s parents smiled as she passed, not because they were pleased their son was marrying a pregnant girl, but because he would now have a farm of his own and would not have to leave home for his living.

  The ceremony was short, no “Ave Maria”, few flowers, no friends and not the groom she had hoped for. As the priest moved through the prayers, Maura could not look at Michael who she had no interest in. Instead she thought of Éamonn. She had protected him by not giving his name up. She would find a way to see him again. She had nothing to lose.

  After the ceremony the wedding party went back to Maura’s parents’ house where they ate sandwiches and Michael and his brother drank too much whiskey and laughed constantly in the corner of the small cold kitchen. Maura looked out of the kitchen window at the approaching winter and felt a loneliness and desperation she had never before felt in her young life. Leaves were falling against the window, making a tapping noise, and Maura imagined it was Éamonn calling to her.

  That night, she and Michael slept in her room. They would have to live with her parents until they could build a house of their own. Maura did not want her husband in the bed that she had shared with Éamonn. He did not touch her that night, for which she was grateful. She comforted herself by placing her hands on her stomach where the remnants of her time with Éamonn lay and listened as her husband snored loudly into the night.

  Six months later the “premature” baby Seán was born and his large size and bright colouring was marvelled at by the suspicious villagers.

  When the wedding was over, Maura’s father, believing his son would never recover from his illness, signed the farm over to Maura and her husband for their living. When Jimmy eventually returned home, a weak but recovered man, his inheritance had already been given away. Jimmy had thought Maura’s husband would do the right thing and perhaps share the farm but he had refused and Jimmy moved into town, unable to watch what was rightfully his being farmed by someone else. He never forgave Maura for not standing up to her husband and fighting for him, even though he understood she was lucky to have had anyone marry her at all under the circumstances. He took little satisfaction in knowing that his wild, rebellious sister was trapped and had to play happy families with a man who had married her for land.

  Chapter 4

  1981

  Sam Moran sat on the barstool furthest away from the door, sipping his second Paddy of the day. He hated this job, a weekly report on the local cattle mart for the rag of a newspaper he worked for, and usually needed at least two stiff whiskeys to cope with the boredom. Moran was a well-groomed man who always made sure he was smartly dressed, his mousey brown hair always slicked back from his chiselled face, showing his intense deep-brown eyes. He had been a real journalist once, working in London for a large newspaper. There he met his wife, Mona. She was from Wicklow town, the daughter of the local doctor; he was born and bred in Dublin, the eldest son of two street traders. Looking back now he could not see what they had in common. She was pretty then and he guessed he was not bad-looking at that time either. He had plans to go all the way to the top in reporting, maybe even get his own decent column. It didn’t matter in England who you were or where you came from. He knew that some Paddies got a hard time in London but he hadn’t had much trouble and had settled into the city well. At night, he attended school, planning on finishing with a qualification in journalism. That was before Mona said she was expecting and he was quickly marched up the steps of the local registry office. Two years later, with another baby on the way, he found himself living in a two-room flat with no option but to go begging to her family for help. They moved to Wicklow where her father gave them a site to build the modest three-bedroom home he had now lived in for almost eight years. Like many people he knew, Sam spent hours wondering where it had all gone wrong.

  The bar was unusually quiet for mart day. He knew a lot of the local farmers and even though he lived over thirty miles away many considered him a local.

  “What’s new, Mattie?” he asked the middle-aged publican who he had come to know well.

  “Not much, Sam, you know this place. Except that the Byrne girl is supposed to be coming home today – my nephew was sent to collect her. He works part-time at the farm.”

  “Coming home from where? I mean, is she someone special, a celebrity or something?”

  “Hah, a celebrity of sorts you might say. The girl is retarded or something. Smashed her father’s head in some years ago at the lake. Been in some loony bin since. It must have been ten or eleven years ago.”

  “Who is she? Which Byrne family?” Sam could feel his blood pressure rising.

  “You know Seán Byrne – he has a farm out on the Dublin road. Her brother. Bit too fond of the beer, you know. Have to send him out of here some nights.”

  “Yeah,” replied Sam, “I know who you mean. Wouldn’t say he’d like taking her back, what with the gossip and all.”

  “Expect not, but I’d say the sister would be in even less of a hurry. Do ya not remember any of this happening? It was all over the newspapers.”

  “No,” Sam replied, remembering glumly the high life he had been living in London at the time. “I think I was still in London then.”

  Sensing a story coming his way, Sam quickly finished his drink and headed not in the direction of the cattle mart, but towards t
he Byrne house. He suddenly felt his luck was about to change.

  Dermot Lynch thought the Dublin traffic had conspired to make him spend more time with Tess Byrne than he would have liked. He was a quiet man by nature and would rather listen than talk and was always happy to fade into the background. He felt uneasy in Tess’s presence. Now that they were on the open road, the quiet inside the truck was disconcerting and he wished she would say something. He decided to ask her a question.

  “Eh, you’re called Tess, but it’s Teresa, isn’t it?”

  Tess nodded.

  “You look a lot like your sister Kate.”

  No answer. He was making the same mistake. Had to be an actual question.

  “Did you make any friends at the hospital?”

  “Yes.”

  Christ, she was hard work! “What were their names?” he asked hopefully

  “Leroy Brennan,” Tess stated solemnly.

  “Leroy, that’s unusual.” Wrong, not a question – ask again. “Was he foreign – you know, from a different country?”

  “He said he was American – his skin was brown,” she replied flatly.

  “I have family in America. New York. I’d like to go see them some day.” Dermot was nervous and was talking more now to Tess than he ever had to any of her family who had employed him for several months.

  “Did they send you away?” asked Tess.

  “No,” replied Dermot, thinking he might have opened a can of worms.

  “My family sent me away,” said Tess matter-of-factly although Dermot thought he sensed some sadness in her voice.

  He stayed silent. He did not want to know his employer’s business, did not want to get involved and did not say another word to Tess for the rest of the hour-long journey.